In Medias Res
On the sidewalk, we pass a busker clutching a tuba telling his friend he wanted a machete. My gait causes me to lag behind Tom, and a man on a weaving bicycle calls, “Hey, darling. Out for a morning stroll?”
I twist my head, thinking I know him—who would I know in the Bywater in New Orleans?—because it’s been so long since it’s...